


do not stand at my grave and cry; i am not there (i did not die)

by the_man_eating_cat



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Flowers, Ghostbur-centric, Hurt/Comfort, cliche title i know, ghostbur except he has depression, i change pov sometimes bc their emotions are more important than pov accuracy, i have no reason for that being a plot point it just is, is this actually hurt/comfort? i dont even know, niki is the kindest person on earth, philza is an angel of death, this is a love letter for the sbi boys, tommy is not exiled, wilbur desperately needs to be loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_man_eating_cat/pseuds/the_man_eating_cat
Summary: wilbur is dead. he doesn’t know why he’s still here. he is haunted by darkness, and it hurts.he wants to be free, and there’s only one way to do that. resign his attachments on this mortal realm to the best of his abilities, and be released.so he makes a decision. he’s a foolish man, with a worthless past he has little memory of. he is undeserving of his family, or at least that’s what he believes.but they are good, and he loves them, and they are deserving of one another. so he’ll give them that -- he’ll return them to what they should have been. to something reminiscent of what they were before, minus wilbur’s existence. and then, finally. he’ll be allowed to die in peace.aka: flower boy!ghostbur
Relationships: Sleepy Bois Inc - Relationship
Comments: 60
Kudos: 144





	do not stand at my grave and cry; i am not there (i did not die)

**Author's Note:**

> i have not turned in my college applications! i have so many other stories to write! so much work to do!  
> and here i am, falling unsaveably in love with a bunch of fucking block men  
> anyway this is a work where i get self-indulgent about how much i love wilbur and sbi and family comforting family and then i almost make myself cry writing it :)  
> this is canon-divergent, but also pretty canon-ignorant because the current plot lines make me sad and i'm not caught up...  
> it starts at where wilbur dies, and then from there i do whatever i want!
> 
> i've taken only like, three days to write this, so sorry for any mistakes! i hope you enjoy :)

the sounds of shouting drum through tommy’s ears. he can’t focus on everything; it is all so loud, so overwhelming. they had won -- he thought they’d won. why is everything going wrong? 

“tommy,” dream says, and his voice is so triumphant, so grating. “the traitor is wilbur.” he says it so nonchalantly. so easily. 

“no, it’s not,” tommy argues. “it’s technoblade,” he says. of course it’s technoblade -- look at what he’s doing. it has to be technoblade. but why is there this sick feeling in his stomach? he would know if wilbur were a traitor, right? he knows his brother. 

well, he used to know his brother. 

_“where is wilbur?”_

dream grins, wide and dangerous. tommy can tell even with the mask on. “wouldn’t you like to know, tommy?” 

in the midst of destruction, tommy grabs tubbo’s shoulder, and he says, “i’m sorry. i have to -- i have to find wilbur.” 

“i understand,” tubbo says. “we’ll try to take care of things here -- go!” 

the awful feeling in tommy’s stomach is only growing stronger, so he runs desperately to the one place he needs wilbur not to be. 

and wilbur is there. 

“oh,” wilbur says. he lets out a little manic laugh. “this is awkward, isn’t it, tommy?” 

“wilbur, don’t do it,” tommy says. “we _won._ schlatt is dead. there’s no need for this.” 

“sorry, tommy. you’ve gotta understand. l’manburg is never coming back --” 

“it _is_ back!” 

“it’s not _mine!_ it is not the l’manburg i built. this l’manburg will _never_ be the one i built, it will _never_ be what i wanted it to be. and if it can’t be mine, tommy, then it should be _no one’s!”_

“wilbur,” speaks a voice, “what are you doing?” 

wilbur and tommy both freeze -- wilbur in shock, tommy in relief. 

phil is here. 

and surely, surely if phil is here, then wilbur will never press that button. phil can do it -- he can convince wilbur. 

“sorry, phil,” wilbur says. “there was a saying, by a traitor. once part of l’manburg. eret. he had a saying, phil. _it was never meant to be.”_

and tommy watches with horrified eyes, as the nation he built, the nation he loves, is destroyed before his eyes, by his own brother. 

“why?” he screams. “why would you do this?” 

“you’re angry, aren’t you?” wilbur says, unhinged and manic. “so kill me, tommy! kill me! look what i’ve done to the nation you gave up everything for. the nation we built. kill me!” 

“i won’t do it,” tommy says, angrily. “i won’t kill you. dammit, wilbur, i won’t kill you. why would you think i’d do that?” 

wilbur doesn’t care. he rips the sword out of tommy’s hands, and there is desperation in his eyes -- burning desperation, and the wax is dripping onto tommy’s skin, and it is burning him alive, because his brother is here but he wants to die, because l’manburg was saved but it’s all gone now. “then you do it, phil,” wilbur says, and he pushes the sword into phil’s hands. everything is already gone. and tommy -- 

“i can’t lose you, wilbur.” 

wilbur ignores him. 

“come on, angel of death, it’s my time,” he says, voice hoarse with his desperate insanity. who is this person before tommy? who is he? 

where did they go wrong? 

_“kill me!”_

**wilbur soot was slain by philza.**

tommy cannot move. he feels rooted to the spot. he stares at the place where wilbur died, waiting for him to come back. needing him to come back. 

“i’m sorry, tommy.” 

“i know,” he says. the voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

“we have to go stop techno.” 

“i know.” 

“tommy --” 

“just go, phil. it’s all meaningless now, anyway.” 

so phil goes. 

\--- 

wilbur wakes up to a world he doesn’t know. 

wide, blue sky. decimated remains of his country. a long familiar path, and wide expanses of land. missing walls and strangers walking amongst his friends. 

he spends time getting situated with his new ‘life’. he’s a ghost, who died in some sort of war. something’s happened to l’manburg. there was an explosion. 

and apparently wilbur is an awful, awful person. 

he isn’t sure why, but he can feel it deep in his gut. he knows instinctively that he doesn’t want to know anything at all, not about himself. 

so he builds himself a home in the sewers, where he’ll be no bother to anyone else. he takes part in rebuilding l’manburg. he writes himself a list of things he remembers.

  
_\- the smell of bread_  
_\- l’manburg_  
_\- the revolution_  
_\- bullying tommy (he’s a child)_  
_\- sparring with techno as a kid_  
_\- the wind_  
_\- being president_  
_\- people cheering for me_  
_\- fundy growing up_  
_\- niki_  
_\- the van_  
_\- tubbo building everything_  
_\- phil protecting me_  
_\- sally the salmon_  
_\- philza stabbing me to death with a sword_  
_\- a large explosion_  
_\- the taste of salt_  
_\- air in my lungs_  
_\- winning the election_  
_\- a ravine_  
_\- techno’s armory_  
_\- books_  
_\- tunnels_  
_\- arrows_  
_\- /_

_\- i don’t know_

  
everything hurts so much. it hurts to be here. it hurts to exist, when he isn’t even alive. it hurts to not remember. it hurts to try. wilbur burns inside of his skin, and he can see the death radiating off of him. he is wrapped up in shadows and they are suffocating him.

even so, techno says he should know the truth. “you should know what you did,” he says, sitting in wilbur’s room in his sewer home. techno shouldn’t be here, but that doesn’t matter to either of them all that much.

“i don’t want to know,” wilbur tells him. he’s already getting tired of saying it to people. 

“ignoring it won’t just make it go away.” 

“it will for me.”

“what about for tommy?” 

wilbur flinches. he knows there’s something wrong with tommy; he knows that his younger brother, usually elated to spend time with wilbur, has been avoiding him as much as possible. wilbur can barely even get him to say hi. 

“did i,” wilbur swallows carefully. “did i do something to tommy?” 

“you did,” techno says. “something much worse than anything i did to him.” 

wilbur isn’t entirely sure what techno did, but he does know there are wanted signs hanging in l’manburg with techno’s face on them. 

“worse, huh?” wilbur says. “i was a fucking awful person, wasn’t i?” 

“wilbur --” 

“i don’t want to know,” wilbur repeats. “i don’t want to know any of it. i tommy hates me forever, fine. that’s probably better. i’m sure remembering wouldn’t save him.” 

“wilbur, you don’t know what --” 

“and i don’t want to!” 

techno frowns. “you didn’t hurt him out of malicious intent.” 

“techno,” wilbur says, low, tired. “please just leave me in peace for a little while.” 

techno leaves with nothing more than a displeased glance in wilbur’s direction. wilbur sinks into his bed and wonders if he can’t become one with the darkness, more than he already is. if he can’t fade into the air and finally be done. he’s so tired of hurting. 

it’s not just techno; no one looks at wilbur the same at all. he’s the foolish man who fucked up somehow, left here as a ghost for reasons wilbur can’t understand. only phil speaks to him gently at all, and it is always full of the tension, the knowledge, that he killed wilbur. he was the one to do it. maybe that’s the reason he’s being so kind. but it doesn’t matter. they can’t erase what’s happened -- well, not anymore than wilbur’s selective amnesia has. 

wilbur is still haunted by the memories that remain, though. he is haunted by the beauty of what he and his family once were. 

because he can remember phil protecting him. training with techno. bullying tommy (lovingly). 

once, they lived in a house by the beach. wilbur would wake in the morning. he’d taste the sweet salty air, feel the breeze against his skin. before anyone else was awake, he’d wake up, and he’d stand at the beach, look out at the wide world before him, and say -- “i’m going to protect everything here. i’m going to be strong enough to protect it all.” 

god, wilbur was a dreamer -- a naive and gracious dreamer. he wanted to be more than a hero; he wanted to be a man with a family, who protected that family to the end. now, that family has been torn apart. 

techno is determined to fight for anarchy -- more, perhaps, than he is fighting for his family, and wilbur doesn’t understand that. tommy hates techno, and probably wilbur too, and he doesn’t seem quite ready to talk to phil, either. he’s isolated. he has tubbo, but tubbo is the president now, so he’s busy, too. meanwhile, phil doesn’t know how to put these pieces of his family back. techno won’t listen to him, tommy won’t talk to him -- wilbur’s fucking dead. 

and fundy -- even fundy is gone. he told wilbur he’s being adopted. by eret. the traitor. 

_(but wilbur is a traitor too.)_

it’s not as if wilbur is a good enough father for fundy, but why eret? why him of all people? 

“go to phil,” he argues weakly. “stay with niki. live with dream, i don’t care -- why would you choose eret?”

“he’s a good person, will,” fundy says. “he’s not who you think he is.” 

“he’s exactly who i know he is,” wilbur says. “please, fundy. for your father.”

fundy frowns. “you were never much of a father anyway.” 

fundy leaves. wilbur can feel himself breaking into nothing. in the long, long nights, which pass painfully in his ghost form that cannot sleep, he can’t escape the painful, horrible thoughts. the knowledge that he wasn’t good enough for anyone. that everyone hated who he once was, when he was alive. that he must have been so absolutely horrible, for fundy to have chosen eret. that he must’ve been the worst father, the worst son, the worst leader, and the worst man. that he is left here in death with nothing but the knowledge that he had fucked it all up. 

there’s only one person who really, truly treats wilbur like normal. 

dream. 

but of course he treats wilbur like everything is normal. nothing’s changed for dream. he still has more power than wilbur. and he is still never, ever to be trusted. he treats wilbur like normal because it doesn’t matter. because wilbur didn’t matter before, other than as a tool, and he doesn’t matter now, other than as a tool. 

but at least that makes him someone for wilbur to talk to. 

so he asks dream the question lingering on his mind, the one he can’t ask to anyone else. 

“why am i still here? i wanted to die -- i know i did. so why am i still here?” 

dream tilts his head, gives it a moment of thought. “i guess it’s lingering attachments,” he says. “that’s how it works, right? with ghosts.” 

“lingering attachments to _what?”_ wilbur asks. “if i wanted to die, then i should’ve died. for good. there should be nothing left here for me.” 

“i don’t know,” dream says. “maybe that’s what you need to figure out. maybe if you resolve that, you’ll disappear. you’ll leave this world forever.” 

“that doesn’t sound so bad,” wilbur murmurs. “how do i figure it out?” 

dream shrugs. “i can’t help you with that, man. you’d know better than i would.” 

wilbur thinks about it on his way home. he thinks about it as he walks through l’manburg’s remains, slowly being rebuilt as it is. he passes by fundy with eret. tommy with tubbo. techno far, far away from l’manburg. phil spending time with people wilbur doesn’t even know, watching his family from a distance -- knowing that there’s a divide between his children which he cannot heal. 

and when he sees it laid out before him like this, it becomes increasingly obvious to wilbur that there is only one possible reason that wilbur would remain here on this world. 

his family. the people he loves, but does not deserve. 

at the very least, he should put them back to right. 

he tells dream that the next day. “i’ll do this,” he says. “and then, finally, it’ll be enough. i’ll get to leave.” 

dream nods slowly. “alright,” he says. “good luck. i hope it works out for you.” 

he has that little knowing undertone to his voice. like he doesn’t think wilbur will be able to do it -- or, more likely, he thinks it doesn’t matter if wilbur can do it or not. 

but wilbur has to. there’s no other choice. surely, he made these cracks. he has to at least heal them over. 

wilbur doesn’t know how to heal his family, though. of course he doesn’t -- he’s only ever known how to break them. 

so he tells phil. he doesn’t say why -- though perhaps phil suspects. (but phil, for his part, looks at this son of his, with his eyebags and his ruffled hair and the deathly shadows exuding from him and, even then, that same desperate glint to save something, to protect somebody, that he had as a child, and phil can’t possibly stand in his son’s way.) 

“we’d better start figuring out how to fix things,” phil says. 

phil suggests wilbur try talking to tubbo. wilbur thinks that tommy hates him, but tubbo is tommy’s best friend, and he may know some way to help. 

wilbur finds that poor child president of the new l’manburg working over broken bits of his country, assisting in the rebuilding. 

“listen, tubbo. can we talk?” he asks. 

“sure, ghostbur,” tubbo says, always more than happy to help out. 

“it’s about tommy.”

“oh,” says tubbo. there’s a quietness to it that tells wilbur he surely knows more than wilbur does. of course he does. 

“i need to help him,” wilbur says. “i don’t know how, i -- i don’t even know what i did. but i want to fix things. i want to fix my family. and you, you’ve always been better to him than i have. you must know what’s going through his mind right now. how i might be able to help.” 

“wilbur,” tubbo says. “tommy loves you, man. he’s not -- he’s not angry at you, i mean, not really. not, like, irreparably. he loves you. he always has.” 

wilbur frowns. he doesn’t think it’s possible for that to be true, especially when tommy is avoiding him like this. “i don’t know about that,” wilbur says quietly. “i think i’ve, uh. burned one too many bridges, y’know?”

“no, no, no,” tubbo says. “no, i don’t think so.” 

“i mean, why else would he be avoiding me, though?” 

tubbo frowns. he glances around, clearly hesitant. 

“tubbo,” wilbur says. “please. i have to know.” 

tubbo lets out a deep sigh. “wilbur, he’s avoiding you because… because he saw you die. and it -- it destroyed him. he doesn’t know how to speak to you anymore because he thinks he’s lost you. he thinks he failed you.” 

the death swims in wilbur’s guts, tearing him into shreds. he feels heavy. he feels hateful, but only towards himself. 

“he’s wrong,” wilbur says quietly. “i failed _him.”_

it takes some time, but with a bit of tubbo’s help, wilbur manages to get tommy to talk to him. tommy agrees to visit wilbur at his house, and they sit awkwardly by the fire, quiet and tired. 

“i want to, uh, apologize,” wilbur says. “for whatever i did. for -- for _everything_ i did, when i was alive. for hurting you in this way, tommy. i’m so, so sorry. i never wanted this. i know i never wanted this. that’s one of the few things i know, actually. and i’m sorry that you had to get caught up in all this fighting and all this pain, because you deserve better, tommy. from the world, and from me. and i’m sorry, and i wish -- i wish i could do more. i wish i had done more, and you have every right to - to be mad at me, or to hate me, or anything. i understand. i just want… i want to help. somehow. i want to help things.” 

“wilbur,” tommy starts, and there’s a look of pain in his eyes, of frustration and sadness, and it is an expression no sixteen-year-old boy should have to wear. “wilbur, i’m not. i’m not, like, angry at you. i mean, you did,” tommy makes another face. “you did some bad things,” he says. “but i don’t hate you. i could never hate you. you’re my brother, wilbur. i just… a lot happened, y’know. and it’s hard to deal with. i’m trying to, uh. understand, or whatever.” 

“i know,” wilbur says quietly. “i’m trying to understand, too.” 

“but i -- i _am_ mad at technoblade,” tommy says. “you’ve gotta understand, wilbur, whatever you remember him as, he changed from that. he did some awful things, and i don’t know if i can forgive them. i know i certainly can’t understand.” 

“you might be able to,” wilbur says. “one day. the more you get involved with presidency and war and politics. you might start to understand.” 

truth is, just from what he’s heard, and what he knows of his twin brother, wilbur thinks techno is probably looking out for tommy. of course, tommy wouldn’t understand that, but wilbur has been involved enough with politics to understand. the government destroys people, including those who are a part of it. the way it destroyed wilbur, or that man named schlatt. how could techno want tommy to be a part of it, having seen what it’s done to wilbur? 

but tommy doesn’t know that. of course he doesn’t know that. he’s still trying to find a way to be both a good person, and a hero, and a man of power. he hasn’t learned yet that it’s impossible -- that you can only have one. 

the conversation with tommy doesn’t get any more fruitful from there, at least in terms of fixing their family in some way, so wilbur tries talking to techno, too. it’s less painful -- the two of them have, from what wilbur can tell, less pain between them. but it’s equally unproductive. techno can’t accept tommy’s involvement with governments. he can’t believe that tubbo will take up this role of president and not fall upon the same path that any other ruler has. 

“it’s all tyranny,” he says. “it’ll always be tyranny. there’s just not space in this world for governments.” 

it’s not that techno hates tommy, of course. he can understand, to some extent, why tommy might be misguided as he is. but he can’t see eye to eye with him. 

and then eret talks to wilbur. 

this is one conversation that’s unexpected. wilbur’s not exactly pleased when he finds the former traitor of l’manburg standing at his door. but he lets him in. maybe it’s because he’s tired of fighting. maybe it’s just because he’s tired. maybe it’s for fundy. maybe it’s because this is the man that fundy chose over wilbur. 

but he lets him in. 

eret tells him he’s sorry -- he really is. “i’ve tried to apologize before,” he says. “which, uh, you probably don’t remember. and i know that an apology alone isn’t really enough. and i know i fucked up. but i turned my back on dream eventually. i realized what was more important -- and that was the friendships i had with the people of l’manburg.” he takes a deep breath, his eyes uncertain. “and, wilbur,” he continues, “i’ll take care of fundy. of course i will. i’m not trying to disrespect you by adopting him or anything. but you are, well… dead. and someone needs to take care of fundy. and i like him; i want to help him.” 

wilbur’s breaths come shakily. “i watched him grow up,” he says, weakly, helplessly. 

“i know,” eret says, empathetic, sad. 

“i love him.” 

“i know.” 

wilbur grips his hands into fists, and looks hesitantly into eret’s eyes. “will you… really take care of him?” 

“i will, wilbur. as much as i possibly can. i’ll protect him with my life.” 

wilbur laughs dryly. “maybe it’s for the best,” he admits. “you’ve probably got a better chance of redemption than i’ve. i mean, i _am_ dead. it doesn’t even matter if i approve or not. it’s out of my hands now. and i guess me being a good father was just,” another dry laugh escapes him. “it was never meant --” 

and a memory comes crashing into wilbur, like the waves at the beach as they turned to high tide, as gentle water betrayed him and turned unkind. 

_“it was never meant to be.”_

who said that? who had said that? it was eret, wasn’t it? it was eret, so why -- why is this wilbur’s own voice that he hears in his head? 

“wilbur? wilbur?” 

eret’s voice is trying to reach through the thick mud, trying to find wilbur, but he is being pulled away by the water. 

_“it was never meant to be.”_

_“i_ pressed the button,” wilbur chokes out. the water is consuming him. he’s drowning, he’s dying all over again. _“i_ destroyed l’manburg.” 

“wilbur? wilbur, are you --” 

the waves become heavier, crueller. they are crashing against wilbur. it hurts, so much. everything hurts so much, but nothing hurts more than the knowledge, the memory. 

“i destroyed my own country! i’m the traitor! _i’m the monster!”_

_“wilbur!”_

hands grab him, though wilbur can’t feel them. phil is standing in front of him, eret somewhere, concerned, behind him. phil is grabbing him by the shoulders, even though it will do nothing to hold wilbur steady against the waves. his living hands can’t reach wilbur. 

“phil?” wilbur asks shakily. “what are you…” 

“wilbur, take deep breaths, okay? deep breaths.” 

“phil, you’re always here when --” dizziness attempts to seize him. 

“wilbur?” 

“-- when i die.” 

and wilbur vanishes from sight. 

when wilbur returns, two days have passed. 

it is even more painful to exist than it was before. his shadows are worse than before. he catches a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection. he is growing so haunted by deathly darkness that it’s becoming difficult to see him through it. 

tommy comes to him halfway to tears, asking him what the hell happened and where the hell he went. wilbur doesn’t know. he doesn’t remember time passing. 

but he does remember what he did. he remembers destroying everything. 

“tommy.” 

“what, will?”

“you should have killed me. i deserved it.” 

wilbur withdraws. he sits in his room and he holds his knees to his chest and he hates himself so much. he doesn’t know how it could be possible to hate himself this much. 

he doesn’t move for a long time. 

“hello, my sad ghost brother.” 

“shitty entrance, techno,” wilbur mumbles from his place in the corner of the room. he’s not sure how many hours -- or even days -- have passed since his return to the horrid realm of living. 

“sorry,” techno says. somehow, he actually sounds like he means it. then, without any invitation or approval, he seats himself right next to wilbur. “heard you remember what happened.” 

“seems like it.” 

“y’know, wilbur,” techno says. “sometimes things have to be destroyed to be fixed.” 

wilbur snorts dryly. “like destroying the government?” 

“exactly. like destroying the government. you were right to blow up l’manburg.” 

“it was _my_ nation,” wilbur murmurs. “i was meant to protect it. i always swore i’d protect it.” 

“maybe it wasn’t worth protecting,” techno says. “i don’t think l’manburg is the heaven everyone pretends it is. as long as l’manburg exists, the governments that have ruled it and the history that haunts it exist. and these aren’t things which protect people. they’re things which tear them apart.” 

“tnt is something that tears people apart. like what i did. like how i ruined everything.” 

“l’manburg was already ruined, wilbur. that’s it’s fate. as long as it succumbs to tyranny.” 

“i don’t think you’re wrong,” wilbur mumbles. “that government is awful. humans aren’t good enough to be rulers. we’re too vile. but i… i am still a shitty, fucked up person, who did a shitty, fucked up thing. i’m unforgivable.” 

“then how come i’ve forgiven you?” 

“you fucking hate l’manburg,” wilbur sighs. “it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t count” 

“i don’t hate it, i hate government,” techno says. “also. you’re my brother, y’know? i care about you, or whatever. and i don’t think you’re shitty or fucked up. you just. went a little insane.” 

wilbur snorts. “a little.” 

“understandably insane,” techno says pointedly. “you had to go through wars. you watched everything be destroyed around you. you were isolated and struggling. you tried your best, y’know. to build a safe place for, uh, ‘emancipation’. and then to be a ruler. and then to be a refugee. you tried your best. it just started to go in the wrong direction. but you went the right way before -- you can do it again. i mean, i’d know, wilbur. i’ve seen you fuck up all sorts of shit and try again.” 

“never like this,” wilbur says. “never on this scale.” 

“then so what?” techno says. “try again on an even larger scale.” 

wilbur sighs. “i don’t want this, techno. i don’t want -- i don’t want redemption or change or anything.” 

“then what _do_ you want, wilbur? tell me.” 

“i want my family to be whole again.” 

“then let’s do it,” techno stands up, and he looks back to wilbur. “let’s do it. let’s fix our family. but _you’re_ a part of that family, too, wilbur. it doesn’t count if it doesn’t include you.” 

“techno.” 

“yeah?” 

“sometimes i can’t stand you.” 

techno laughs, stupid and free, and wilbur is reminded of what he’s always loved about him. 

tommy doesn’t want to talk to techno. understandable, to be fair, but techno is very good at being insistent and stubborn and annoying. 

unfortunately, these traits all describe tommy as well. 

“i hate my brothers,” wilbur says to himself, against the backdrop of loud arguing. “i hate them so much.” 

they’re yelling some things about, “you’re so annoying,” and, “you destroyed my country,” and, “i’m literally just trying to speak to you, idiot,” and wilbur buries his face in his hands and sighs. 

“stop arguing,” he says. “you’re _both_ being stupid.” 

this, of course, only makes them louder. wilbur sighs deeper. 

but unnoticed by any of them, phil sees their arguing, and for a moment, they are a picture of the past. just three bickering, childish brothers. a peaceful family, peaceful in their fighting, because that is how they’ve always been. 

if it weren’t for the death and darkness which haunts wilbur without end, it would almost seem like things had returned to normal. 

their arguing is interrupted -- tubbo comes to them with something about dream, or sapnap, or some other political issue that wilbur doesn’t care to hear about, because those things don’t have to do with him anymore. his brothers turn dramatically away from each other, ever the over-the-top fools, and wilbur returns to his home all alone.

on his way there, he passes by fundy (probably causing trouble with scams or something, but wilbur isn’t going to press him about that). 

“you look like shit, will,” fundy says. wilbur knows this, of course. 

instead of responding, he just asks how it’s going with eret. he’s not sure why. maybe he loves hurting himself. 

things are fine between the two of them, apparently. good, even. they’re building a castle. they’re having fun. 

“i’ll tell phil to sign the adoption papers,” wilbur says. he knows phil hasn’t yet -- more likely than not out of consideration for wilbur. he’d never even considered saying anything about that before, but suddenly, it seems like the only option. someone has to be fundy’s father. and it can’t be wilbur. not when he’s gone. not when he’s falling apart like this. 

with a, “well, see ya, kid,” he tries to pat fundy’s shoulder on his way out, and fundy flinches. wilbur pulls back, eyes going wide, and they both realize, in unison, that fundy had felt his ghostly touch. 

not only that, but it had burned. 

“wilbur -” 

“i have to go,” wilbur says, feeling sickness cut through him like that blade to the heart. he stumbles away, a wordless and confused fundy left behind him. 

wilbur could touch objects before, but he couldn’t touch people. he couldn’t touch _life._

now the decorative flowers in his home wilt away from his touch. the grass burns beneath his feet. he is so full of death, so unworthy of life, that his very existence rejects it. 

wilbur takes a potion of weakness, because it’s the only thing that can put him in a state close to unconsciousness. 

the night passes by painfully. 

wilbur spends the next few days caught in a deathly haze, barely able to think or function. everything burns. he is so tired of the hurting. he wants, at least, to stop killing everything. to stop his flowers from wilting. he sits there desperately at his windowsill, planting flowers time and time again, watching them wither away under his touch. at some point, phil comes by, probably with the intentions of dragging him away, or saying something, anything, to him. wilbur just does as he told fundy he would -- he tells phil to sign the adoption papers. and phil, lost, concerned, with nothing he can see to save wilbur, leaves. 

but tommy and techno come by, too, and they’ve finally agreed on something, somehow. regardless of whatever differences they’ve had, they both know wilbur needs their help. 

“we’re having a boys’ night out,” tommy announces, and the two of them leave no room for wilbur’s refusal, though he does try. 

“it’s a night out in town,” techno says, forcibly dragging wilbur to his feet. “i got a visa and everything. we can go anywhere.” 

“and we won’t even talk about politics!” tommy adds. 

wilbur feels absolutely ill with misery, but he’s weak to his brothers. he always has been. 

“fine,” he mutters. “a night out.” 

tommy grins wide, and grabs wilbur by the hand, pulling him out of his room, and up into the world outside of his sewers. 

“where should we go?” tommy asks. “should we tour l’manburg?” 

“i don’t think there’s that much to see,” techno mutters, which gets him a kick to the legs for that. 

tommy shows them the strangely dangerous party island, and all the newly-built homes. wilbur meets a nice kid named ranboo who has a case of horrible short-term memory (something wilbur can sympathize with), and who offers him an awkward, friendly smile, and some potatoes as a ‘neighborly gift’. when tommy asks ranboo where he thinks they should go to have fun, ranboo suggests a flower shop. 

“i think niki and captain puffy own it?” ranboo says. “we’re building right next to it.” 

“we?” wilbur asks. “you and…?” 

“oh, me and --” 

“the flower shop sounds like a good idea!” techno interrupts with horribly forced casualness. “right, tommy?” 

“yeah, flower shop!” tommy agrees. “i _love_ flowers.” 

“you do?” wilbur and ranboo ask in unison. 

tommy looks between the two of them. “let’s just go,” he says, and then wilbur is being pulled away by techno and tommy, as he tries to shoot ranboo a quick parting wave. 

wilbur hasn’t seen niki since he died, and the look in her eyes when he’s pulled into the shop is absolutely heartbreaking. captain puffy shows the three boys around, more than happy to show off her wares, but niki steps up to wilbur and quietly says, “can we talk?” 

wilbur nods wordlessly, and he and niki step outside the shop. 

“i, um,” niki starts. “i’ve heard a little bit about you since… since everything happened. no one would really tell me anything clear though. i was worried about you, will.” 

“sorry,” wilbur says. he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. “i didn’t know how to see anyone. i didn’t know how to… how to talk to you, after everything i did.” 

“well, i’m,” niki offers him a smile. “i’m glad you’re well enough to come by now. and i’m glad you and your brothers are doing okay.” 

wilbur exhales a laugh. “i’m not sure ‘okay’ is the right word for it,” he says. “we are… trying our best, i suppose.” 

“i think you’ll be fine,” niki says with a knowing smile. “i’ve known you boys for a while now. you can heal from here. _all_ of you,” she says, and she gives him a sincere look. “and i just want you to know, wilbur… i don’t hold it against you -- anything you did. i know who you are, wilbur, and you’re a good man.” 

wilbur isn’t sure he believes her, when he knows so little about healing, but her words are comforting nonetheless. she herself has always been comforting, and when he and his brothers leave the flower shop, his heart feels a little bit lighter. 

for some reason, when wilbur takes notice of ranboo’s ice cream shop, yet unfinished, techno and tommy make eye contact, shake their hands, and say, “let’s just wait for it to be done building.” 

so instead, they go fishing. they fuck around on the prime path. they ‘wap’ at church prime. they make fun of george’s stupid (not-griefed) mushroom house. they run into badboyhalo, and techno and wilbur join tommy in cussing at him. they have a strange encounter with ‘mexican dream’ (who leaves wilbur minorly scarred). they do whatever stupid shit they want. just like three little boys, three silly brothers, running free and wild they way they used to be able to. 

wilbur doesn’t deserve this. he’s sure he doesn’t. redemption isn’t in his path, he would know. he rid himself of that opportunity with each step further into darkness and insanity that he took. and yet he cannot pull himself away from it. he cannot pull himself away from his brothers. and he realizes now that it’s only natural he was condemned to this painful existence as a ghost, when he is so thoroughly incapable of leaving his family. je doesn’t even know how to consider it. he loves them so dearly, their every habit and quirk. every time tommy barks out that stupid laugh or says something he definitely shouldn’t, every time techno makes some stupid quip to insult somebody (including himself), or starts talking about some nerdy greek mythology shit. wilbur knows what they love; he knows how they’ve lived. he’s still missing things in his memory, but he knows them. he knows what has made them into who they are now. 

eventually, phil comes to get them after night has fallen, to make sure they don’t cause too much trouble or stay out too late. he’s always been good at looking out for them.

“phil,” wilbur says, and he’s so fragile, so weak. he gives into his every inner urge, because he just cannot be without his family. how could he ever exist without them? “let’s make chinese lanterns,” he says quietly. a hopeless little boy’s plea, to not be left alone, to not have his family leave him. 

and of course phil can’t say no. 

so they sit together in l’manburg, making chinese lanterns around a fire, ignoring the remains of the crater or the history which lies between them. they ignore it all, in favor of the love they’ve known. the love for one another. 

and then schlatt’s ghost visits him. 

wilbur comes home, warmth in heart, family on his mind, and sees schlatt’s corpse there, awake and moving inside wilbur’s home, even though he’s long dead. 

“heard you forgot about me,” schlatt says to him. “kinda cruel, don’t you think? i mean, i thought we were friends.” 

“i don’t -- i don’t know what you’re talking about,” wilbur says, but something is stirring inside his memory, something from his forgotten past. “i don’t know you.” 

“come on,” schlatt says, and he almost sounds pained. “you don’t remember _anything?”_

and then wilbur does. 

his memory comes as fire, this time, licking over his fragile, deathly skin. he remembers his friendship with schlatt, and the way it all fell apart. he remembers the schlatt administration. he remembers being banished. there’s no oxygen to take in at all, in the excruciating heat, in the midst of this wildfire. a ghost shouldn’t even need breath, but here he is, trying desperately to find it, and failing. 

phil finds him, again. he’s the only figure wilbur can make out through the shaking air, the burning heat. the name “angel of death” is starting to make so much more sense to wilbur. it is the last thing he thinks before he dies -- that phil surely can sense death. and wilbur wonders how overwhelming his own presence must be for phil, if he’s so fine tuned to death’s every movement. 

this time, wilbur disappears for five days. 

in the meantime, tommy and techno come to an agreement. they put aside politics, they put aside all their differences. none of those things matter anymore. wilbur is their brother. their precious brother. and he needs help. 

phil catches them watching, sees them looking every corner of l’manburg over, time and time again. he sees them lingering outside of wilbur’s home, waiting, trying to be subtle, but with impatience and fear in their eyes. what if this time, he doesn’t come back? what if wilbur’s gone for good? 

but he does come back. 

he comes back, and he’s more tired than ever before. his skin is thick with shadows. his eyes burn, in a lonely, exhausted way. phil’s not sure he can forgive any of the people who made wilbur this way. 

but then again, he’s the one who killed him first. 

tommy and techno don’t know how to help wilbur, and it’s visibly upsetting for them. wilbur is distant now, just as he was before. and understanding emotions have never been the strong suit of these brothers, nor has communication. 

but this is a time of weakness unlike anything they’ve ever experienced. everything that lies between them, all their bonds and memories and love, are teetering dangerously on the edge. 

so they do the one thing they rarely ever have the strength to. 

they ask for help. 

fundy, when asked, tries to push at his father’s shoulder playfully, to act like they’re a normal father and son, but wilbur is dead, and every touch of fundy’s living hand against his ghostly skin only burns them. ranboo tries to give him ice cream and talk to him, and say, “y’know, i’ve heard what you’ve done, and there’s a lot of good things there, too, right?” eret tries to read to him, of all things, to pull books from the library and remind him of what they’ve accomplished. even dream stops by, because he might not care for wilbur much, but even he hates to see the once powerful president of l’manburg this far fallen, this deeply destroyed. others come by just to drop off gifts, at a loss for what to say to this broken, unresponsive ghost. 

and phil -- phil sings him a song, a quiet lullaby from wilbur’s younger years. he knows it won’t work even as he does it. he knows that his own death-haunted hands are just a bit too similar to wilbur’s to ever pull him from this edge. perhaps all their family is the same; perhaps everyone in this entire world is simply too singed with death to ever blow these flames away. 

well -- not everyone. 

niki comes, smelling of a warm bakery and a sweet flower shop, and she smiles, and she speaks to him softly. she asks tommy and techno to leave, to give wilbur some space. they hesitate, but they don’t know what else to do, and niki, in all her gentle strength, seems to radiate the energy of an angel. so they leave her and wilbur alone, and she pulls flowers from her bag. she replants the wilted ones in wilbur’s home. she opens the curtains to let in the sun; she starts baking some bread. she hums gently, a familiar song. the one they sang for l’manburg, their once beautiful home. 

and when she is done, and wilbur’s home looks nothing like the haven of death it had looked like at first, she sits at his side. his shadows lick at her then shy away, for she is too pure and too bright to be blighted by them. 

“wilbur,” she begins. “you are not a perfect man. you have gotten things wrong before. but... who here hasn’t? who in this entire universe has never hurt another person? you always tried your best, wilbur. you _always_ tried your best. and you did _so many_ things right. you did l’manburg right, at the beginning. and you should have seen yourself, wilbur. you should have seen all of you. you were such bright and beautiful revolutionaries, full of so many ideals and dreams. i know we cannot turn back time. i know too much has happened for us to ever be able to return to those days. but that does not mean that the ‘us’ of the past has been erased. we are not undeserving of a chance for happiness or peace. there are men in this world who will fight tooth and nail simply to have war. to bring death. but you, wilbur, are not one of them. i truly believe, for anything you did, that you were _never_ one of them. all the decisions you made were what you deemed necessary, because you were pushed so far you saw no way out. and your family, chaotic actions and recklessness aside, are not any of those war-driven men either. you are all simply trying to do the things you believe you must, and that you believe are right. and we are human; we can never truly know what is right. but wilbur -- you stayed for a reason. you are here on this world for a reason. and i believe it is because you love your family. and you want to be here with them. right?” 

she pauses, now, to look at wilbur, to wait for him to speak. 

“i -” his voice is hoarse from disuse. it takes a moment to swallow, to remember how to say anything at all. niki waits. she has always known how to wait. “i want them to be happy.” 

“and they can be,” she says. “you can make them happy. but only if you learn to be happy, as well. your wellbeing is as important to them as theirs are to you. don’t you see? they’ll never be happy watching you destroy yourself.” 

“but i -- i don’t deserve happiness, niki. i betrayed everyone. i destroyed l‘manburg. i made phil kill me; i watched schlatt die. schlatt -- and he was my friend once, y’know? he was my good friend once. and i watched him die. i _wanted_ him to.” 

“when schlatt died, he was lost,” niki says. even as wilbur feels himself falling off the rails, her voice is even and steadying. “he wasn’t the man you befriended. he did awful things as ‘manburg’s’ ruler. and you, wilbur -- when you died, you were lost, too. you both just took the wrong paths. war and violence can make that happen. but you’ve been given a chance to reset now. when i see you here, i see that you are hurting. but i also see that the insanity of the wilbur who died is gone. and the humanity of the wilbur we all loved, _that_ is still here. _you_ are still here, wilbur. and as long as you are, you are surely deserving of happiness. i know we all think that. that’s why everyone has come here. that’s why everyone wants you to feel better. whether you were their enemy or their friend, no one wants to see you hurt like this.” 

wilbur is quiet. in the face of such immense goodness, of such powerful love, he is at a loss for words. 

“come with me,” niki says quietly. she stands up, and wilbur follows, because what else can he do but follow her? 

she puts the warm bread she’s baked into a basket and pushes it into his hands. they step outside, and she nods to tommy and techno, who had been waiting awkwardly above ground. the three brothers follow her, confused but quiet. they walk for a long, long time, never speaking a word. wilbur eats the bread niki made. he shares it with his brothers. 

finally, they reach niki’s destination. a quiet cottage by the beach. wilbur recognizes it -- of course he recognizes it. a familiar, long abandoned home, left behind for the sake of nations to build and worlds to change. 

it is the home where wilbur, techno, and tommy were raised. phil’s old home. there’s still a wooden bench out on the porch where they sat. an abandoned houseplant left withering by the windowsill. old and rusty weapons left leaning against a wall, beside old and rusty toys. wilbur breathes in the scent of the beach, and his childhood comes rushing into him. gentle feelings of nostalgia, quiet echoes of laughter and childish, peaceful bickering. he loved this place. he loves it still. in it, he sees whispers of both a living and kind wilbur. the idealistic dreamer he once was. alongside him, a techno who is less dangerous, but just as chaotic as now, holding up a sword with a loud shout of joy, in imitation of a war cry. to the side, a young and bright-eyed tommy, looking upon his brothers in free, childish awe. and of course, watching them carefully, unable to keep a fond smile off his face as he warns them to be careful, is their ever-loving father. not an angel of death -- only their good and kind father. 

wilbur believes they were all good and kind then, more than they are now. but what if -- what if niki is right? what if wilbur can hear these whispers because, somewhere within him, they still exist? 

the four of them stand before the beach. the salty air brings wilbur close to tears.

and then tommy turns to him with those sparkling eyes, and god, how happy wilbur is to know that they have not yet stopped sparkling. how happy wilbur is to be in his brothers’ presences, and to see how they still shine. 

“let’s swim!” tommy says, bright and alive, and wilbur has never known how to say no to tommy when he is like this, free and young and awe-inspiring. 

techno has, though, with an unimpressed look and a, “it’s winter, tommy. it’s too cold to swim.” 

“what, you too pussy?” tommy asks. 

and techno, of course, has never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“be careful,” niki tells them, laughing softly, as they empty out their pockets so they can swim. 

“come on, will!” tommy says, beckoning to wilbur from where he and techno have already gotten in the water. his eyes are still shining, even though as faint bit of hesitation lingers in his voice. 

wilbur can’t bear to disappoint him. 

“it’s cold, tommy,” he mumbles, but cold doesn’t mean much when he’s dead, anyway. tommy’s face lights up when wilbur steps forward, letting the freezing water wash over him. he watches as the heat of his skin mixes with the cold of the water, making smoke rise up in the air. 

tommy starts to laugh, elated even as his teeth chatter. “when you get in the water, will --” he continues to laugh. “it gets -- it gets warmer!” 

“holy fuck,” techno mutters, taking in the warmth as his arms wrap around his trembling shoulders. “thank god you’re here, wilbur.” 

wilbur, for his part, tries very hard not to cry at those words. 

then he looks behind them and sees niki, and she gives him a gentle, knowing smile, and he does cry. he drops down underwater to hide the tears, and the warmth of his burning soul spreads further through the ocean. for once, it is not burning in pain. 

distracted as they are by their fooling around, the three of them don’t notice niki has gone off somewhere until after they’re tired out, and the water has thoroughly turned into a personal hot tub for them. they start a fire on land and wait for niki, laying on the sand under the afternoon sun and trying to dry their clothes off (which doesn’t work well, given that it’s winter). niki rejoins them some time later, her bread basket now full of flowers. she gives wilbur a gentle smile and, once again, pushes that basket into his hands. 

“for when the others wilt,” she says softly, and he understands. 

he might be dead, but as long as he is here, the people he love will never stop bringing him life. 

finally, they make their way back to l’manburg. niki heads off to her bakery, and the three brothers eat dinner together at phil’s house. wilbur is quiet, but he can’t push his smile down as he listens to tommy recount the day’s events, or techno cutting in to make some unnecessary comment that incites argument from tommy. wilbur meets phi’s eyes, and phil smiles, and it is full of unsaid, loving words. 

they go home only after the sun has long set. wilbur sets the flowers down on a table in his room. he looks at the ones niki planted, still alive -- for now, at least. he sits in his bed, and he cries, and for once, it is not because everything hurts so much, but because he is dead but he feels so alive, because he thought he could only ever hate himself but his heart is full of love. he cries because he is the luckiest ghost to have ever existed, because he has been blessed with the greatest family and the greatest friends. 

wilbur spends the next day writing song lyrics. he’s not sure why, but he felt the need to do it. he felt like he was finally capable of creating something that didn’t burn. 

for some reason, he’s interrupted multiple times throughout the day. he’s not entirely sure who’s started this, but every single person wilbur has ever met -- and even some he’s not sure he has -- seem determined to bring him flowers. even george drops by, and he spends most of his time being “not found”. by evening, there’s hardly space to walk inside wilbur’s house, surrounded by flowers as he is. but wilbur is careful not to touch them. he wants them to live as long as they can. 

the ones that niki planted have wilted by now. so with careful, trembling hands, he picks up a bouquet he was gifted. it takes six times, but he manages to plant his flowers with only a few petals singed and browning. 

schlatt comes again, at night. it seems to be the easiest time for him, but, then again, he is a walking corpse. 

“nice flowers,” he comments. 

“i know,” wilbur says. “everyone’s been, uh. very kind, bringing them.” 

“they didn’t bring me any flowers,” schlatt says. “they pissed on my pictures at my funeral.” 

for some reason -- maybe the way schlatt says it, falsely offended and sincerely casual -- this makes wilbur laugh. 

“fucking awful, right?” 

wilbur laughs even more. schlatt, as he is now, reminds wilbur of the way he was when they were teenagers. younger, happier, alive. “how could they,” wilbur says, in joking sympathy. 

“i mean i did,” schlatt blows out a heavy breath. “i did do some pretty awful things.” 

“you did,” wilbur says quietly. “and i did, too.” 

“what a pair, huh?” 

wilbur laughs again. “the fucking worst.” 

“i, uh. i just wanted to say, though. i didn’t mean to, y’know. fuck you up when i came by last time.” 

wilbur smiles sadly. “of course,” he says. “but i couldn’t remember you before. and when i did, it hurt. you were my best friend once, schlatt. and i watched you die.” 

“yeah,” schlatt says quietly. “i probably should’ve, uh, laid off on the drinking.”

wilbur grins. “lateral raises halfway on your death bed probably weren’t the greatest idea, either.” 

schlatt laughs, and it’s so free, so _him,_ and these days wilbur can’t help but marvel in how alive everything seems when he has died. even another dead man. 

“it’s been good, wilbur,” schlatt says. “we fucked up a lot of stuff, but somehow. it’s good now.” 

“it’s good,” wilbur echoes. “guess we should’ve had more faith in the younger generation.” 

“yeah, shit’s on them now,” schlatt says. “we old dead guys, we gotta -- we gotta get a break, right?” 

“right,” wilbur agrees. 

“well,” schlatt lets out a deep, almost relieved sigh, and wilbur thinks he, too, is releasing his fetters. “see ya around, wilbur.” 

“goodbye, schlatt.” 

in the silence of his now-empty home, wilbur takes the pieces of poetry and lyrics scattered across his desk, and he reconciles a piece of his past. 

after he plants his flowers the next day (this time, it only takes three tries), wilbur gets to work on the crater beneath l’manburg. while he’s fixing it, fundy stops by. he sees wilbur -- _really_ sees him, his father who has broken time and time again -- trying so hard to put things to right. to plant those flowers, to fix this land, to save his family. it’s getting harder for fundy to hold things against him. 

so he offers him, just this once, a helping hand. he fills in a piece of the crater with wilbur, and he thinks over what he needs to say. 

“y’know, will?” he begins. 

“yeah, fundy?” 

“i give you a lot of shit, and i know i’m adopted now, but you, uh… i do know how hard you work, and how much you’ve done, and you may have fucked up a bit, but at the end of the day… you’re a pretty good dad.” 

wilbur stops in his tracks. he turns to look at fundy, eyes wide and disbelieving, and his son gives him an awkward little smile. 

“so thanks,” he says. “for everything you’ve done.” 

fundy pats a bit of dirt, coughs awkwardly, and then leaves, probably to escape the awkwardness that is this family of theirs trying any form of gentle communication, but wilbur’s heart has already soared up to levels he’s not sure he’ll ever retrieve it from. he crouches down, all strength gone from his legs, and buries his face in his hands. 

“oh, my son,” he whispers to himself, fondness unable to be contained in the words alone. “my _son.”_

“kids, am i right?” he hears phil say from behind him, and his giddy grin only widens. “kick you down, pull you up.” 

“was i as bad for you, phil?” wilbur asks. 

“i had three of you, will,” phil says. “your combined forces were far worse than you could ever imagine.” 

wilbur laughs, high and joyful. “what a marvel, it is,” he says. “this ‘family’ thing. it’s like i can’t both love my family and hate myself.” 

“that’s because your family loves _you,”_ phil says. “you've given a lot to us, y’know.” 

“it better not be even half as much as you’ve given me,” wilbur says, “or i might really start believing i’m not the worst person this earth has seen.”

phil smiles sadly, and he doesn’t say anything more. he just begins planting dirt side by side with his son. he knows they are trying to put to right the broken pieces. 

at night, wilbur stares at the darkness, and the way his shadows blend with them. he holds his hands up into the air, and watches the way death spreads from him. he lays out before himself the good and the bad -- the wretchedness of his being and the beauty of his family. he weighs his very life, everything he did once, and everything he is doing now. he tries to decide if he is a worthy human being, even knowing in his unconsciousness that such a thing can never really be ‘decided’. it is only ever known or felt. 

still, he feels the need to go back over the film reel of his existence. to remind himself of everything that has happened. to really, truly, deeply _remember._

and for the first time since wilbur died, without any potions of weakness or any excruciating suffering, he loses consciousness. he falls asleep.

and he dreams. 

he sees bits of his past that he didn’t know he’d forgotten. he sees moments of his childhood, followed by his growing up, and then he sees the building of l’manburg. the unimportant days; the life changing ones. the beautiful hope; the painful destruction. he lives through everything again, as if right now he is only just dying for real, and finally, he is seeing his life flash before his eyes. he sees everything fall apart, sees himself banished, sees pogtopia fighting for something he no longer believed in. 

but it is followed, unendingly, by the beauty. the moments of laughter, the days of hope, the shared excitement. and then by flowers. by the people who are trying to fix wilbur, when he never even believed he deserved it. wilbur, dead as he is, sees _life,_ and it is so gorgeous. 

wilbur wakes up, and he is crying. 

he sits up slowly, taking in the bright light filling his room. he doesn’t remember opening the curtains. he looks around his room and blinks in confusion. 

“what the hell?” he says. 

laying at the side of his bed, head resting in his arms, is tommy. sitting in a chair at the other end of the room, also fast asleep, is techno, crown tilted on his head. he hears a sound of rustling, and phil’s head pops out from behind the door. 

“oh, thank god,” he says. “you’re awake.” 

“what?” wilbur asks.

tommy stirs slowly at his side. he lifts his head and makes eye contact with the immensely confused wilbur. 

and then his eyes go wide, and he says, “he’s awake! holy shit, wilbur’s finally awake!” 

“uh, yes?” he says. 

“he’s awake! he’s awake!” tommy bounds over to techno, shaking him so hard the crown comes clattering down. “wilbur woke up!” 

“shut up, tommy,” techno says tiredly as he wakes up. and then he, too, makes eye contact with the _still_ confused wilbur, and he says, “holy shit! you’re awake!” 

“okay, what the fuck?” wilbur says.

“you’ve been asleep for a while,” phil says. “even though i thought ghosts didn’t sleep. also, breakfast is almost done.” 

“a while?” wilbur asks. “how long?” 

“a fucking week, wilbur!” tommy says. “i thought you were dead!” 

“i am dead.” 

“well, but. y’know.” 

“what happened to you?” techno asks. 

wilbur shrugs, feeling quite at a loss. “i was just dreaming.” 

“dreaming?” techno asks. “for a week?” 

“about my life,” wilbur says. he pulls himself slowly out of bed, his limbs feeling lethargic. tommy and techno stare at him as he does, and it’s slightly unnerving, so he decides to just ignore them. he walks over to where phil is, and phil gives him a good, hard look. 

“what?” wilbur asks, starting to get a bit uncomfortable. 

“you, uh, notice anything weird about yourself today?” 

“i just slept for a week.” 

“i mean,” phil says, and then he gestures vaguely. wilbur gives him the most confused look he can muster up. phil studies him for another strange, silent minute, and then holds his hand out. “take it,” he says. 

“uh, phil.” 

“take it.” 

hesitantly, wilbur takes phil’s hand. 

there’s no flinch. no burning. wilbur meets phil’s eyes, then looks back down at his hand again, and it finally hits him that his shadows have receded. the darkness is no longer melting out of him at incessantly. it is faintly there, but it’s almost unnoticeable. and he can touch a living person without hurting them. 

he pulls his hand away. he takes a step back. he turns around, and he walks over to techno. he grabs his brother by the hand, pulls him out of the chair, and wraps him into a tight hug. despite techno’s confused protests, he never at any moment is hurt by it. 

wilbur releases him, turns around, and then hugs tommy, too. he squeezes him so hard that tommy struggles and whines, but tommy can’t hide the way his arms wrap fondly around his older brother. 

wilbur pulls away. 

he starts crying. 

“wilbur?” tommy exclaims, with an awkward laugh. 

“dude, are you… good?” techno asks. 

“i can touch you,” wilbur murmurs quietly, falling to his knees. “i can hug you.” 

tommy and techno exchange glances. then they lower themselves to the ground with wilbur. 

“yeah, buddy,” techno says, and he ruffles wilbur’s hair affectionately. “good for you.” 

and techno takes one of wilbur’s hands, and tommy takes the other, and they sit there silently with their silly, crying, precious brother, until his tears have dried and their breakfast is finished and they can sit there and eat and chat, like everything is normal. like they are a family which is whole and unbroken. 

wilbur plants flowers, and they don’t wilt. he is so overjoyed, he spends hours planting them. he starts a garden outside of his house. and then one outside of phil’s, and then outside of tommy’s (but not outside fo techno’s, on account of all the snow -- wilbur prepares him several houseplants instead). then he still doesn’t feel satisfied, so he plants them for tubbo, for niki, for fundy, until night has fallen and his hands are dark with dirt instead of death. he takes a hot shower to clean up, and the water burns his skin, instead of the other way around. wilbur feels alive, and it is glorious. 

he, who he had thought to be worthless and unsaveable, has put life into the world. he, who is long dead, who gave up on life because there was nothing for him left but an even further downfall, has made things beautiful. wilbur died because there was no turning back, because he could no longer be saved -- and yet here he is, a ghost on a living land, and he feels. he feels alive. 

he is not sure he is allowed to, he’s not sure it’s okay, but he feels alive nonetheless, and he wants, for once, to bask in it. it’s a strange feeling, to know you’re dead but feel alive, to wonder if it’s okay but still feel it anyway. he wonders if perhaps he could get used to this. he wonders if that would be okay. 

weeks pass by in this manner. sometimes techno and tommy fight, but they always stop when they see wilbur. it’s becoming less awkward to visit fundy -- or even to visit both fundy and eret. wilbur’s not sure he’ll ever properly get along with eret now, but there is a bit of unity between the two of them; an understanding which comes from loving the same son. from wanting him to be safe. 

sometimes wilbur spends his days at niki’s flower shop or her bakery. she’s teaching him about types of flowers, so he can understand what it is he’s putting life into, so he can understand the best ways to let them grow. it is starting to seem, though, that the mere touch of this dead boy’s hands are all the flowers need to be filled with life. wilbur isn’t sure how this has happened, or what it means, but he has never been more in love with life. 

wilbur goes back to the house where he was born. he surrounds it with flowers. he hopes those flowers will stay forever. and he takes care of the flowers he’s planted around all those he loves. he takes care of l’manburg’s flowers. 

some days, his shadows are worse than others. some days, he feels heavier than others. some days, the petals wilt, and he feels too hopeless to even drag himself out of bed. but other days, he is more alive than he was when he really drew living breaths. other days, he could take the entire world into his hands and breathe life into it. 

on bad days, he’s given space. a flower is left at his doorstep. phil drops by to make him meals. tommy and techno have even gotten into writing him notes. he’s not sure how or why they thought of it, but sometimes he’ll find signs littering his house saying things like, “good morning wilbur,” or, “hope you’re feeling pogchamp today wilbur,” or a little message about some stupid thing tommy has done with or to tubbo, or how techno’s potato farming is going, or any little, precious things at all. every now and then, fundy does it too. they make even the bad days feel just a bit more bearable. 

as the time goes by, that feeling of being alive starts to last longer. his bad days become fewer and farther in between. they exist; wilbur thinks they’re probably impossible to escape. but they’re survivable. he knows, now, that they’re all survivable. 

sometimes, when he walks through l’manburg, flowers bloom in the cracks between the wood. sometimes, he lays on the grass and takes in the sun, and opens his eyes to a garden surrounding him. he thinks they’re calling him names -- “flower boy,” or some other stupid things. but there’s a bit of fondness to it, a bit of awe. and he’s aware. he doesn’t understand it himself, how the flowers are called to him. but in the wake of all this death came life, and he cannot help but love it. he wants to love it for as long as he can. 

he doesn’t think there’s that long left. 

dream comes to him one day, on a hill of flowers where he is taking in the sky. “what are your plans?” dream asks him. 

“what do you mean?” 

“i mean, i thought you wanted to die. like, for good. and you were gonna resolve your lingering attachments, or whatever. are you done with that now?” 

wilbur tilts his head to the side and sighs. “i don’t think i’m done,” he says. 

“you still don’t want to stay?” dream asks. 

“i don’t think i can,” wilbur says. “i know my family thinks i’m deserving of life. and i think i am more than i understood before. but that doesn’t change the fact that i died. the dead can’t stay among the living forever.” 

“then, what?” dream asks. “what’ll you do?” 

wilbur hums pensively. “tommy and techno don’t fight that much lately. things are easier on phil. i know we’re better off than we were before, and i know they love each other. but those two are so good at fighting. i mean, techno’s more patient than i give him credit for, but… tommy can be a handful.” 

dream snorts. they’re both well aware of that. 

“i just want to know,” wilbur says. “i want assurance that… whether i’m here or not, they’ll be able to resolve their differences. that they won’t need a brother falling apart at the seams to realize that things need saving.” 

“and how’re you gonna do that?” 

wilbur smiles. “i already am,” he says. “i mean, i hope i am.” 

he looks out towards l’manburg, and dream follows his gaze, to the land which, even in the cold of winter, wilbur has kept in full bloom. 

“i’m going to keep planting them,” wilbur says. “until they stop dying for good.” 

“i don’t think that’s how… flowers work.” 

“it’s my ghost magic,” wilbur jokes, but his eyes are sincere. “my last wish.” 

“i see,” dream says quietly. he breathes in the cool air, and tastes the flowers on his tongue. “y’know what, wilbur?” 

“yeah?” 

“i might actually miss you.” 

“oh,” wilbur says, surprised. 

dream shrugs. “well, you were always a good, uh…” 

“tool?” wilbur offers, and dream laughs. 

“anyway,” he says. “i hope you’re as good at gardening as you were at everything else. i think it’d be nice. to keep the flowers around.” he gives wilbur a nod, and stands to his feet. 

wilbur, at a complete loss for what to say, can only get out a quiet, “thanks.” 

dream adjusts his mask. “bye, wilbur.” 

“goodbye, dream.” 

watching him walk away, it feels almost like acceptance, for some reason. and acceptance from someone who’s basically an enemy feels pretty impressive to wilbur. 

“well,” he sighs, rising to his feet. “i’d better get to work.” 

the winter is slowly coming to an end, and the cold is fading to make room for warmth. of course, this has no impact on techno’s home, being in a snow biome as it is. 

“you should move,” wilbur tells him, as he waters the flowers he’d planted inside his house. “somewhere closer to everyone else.” 

‘what, so they can steal more of my stuff?” techno asks. he’s sitting at his dining table, reading a book about hyacinthus and apollo. when he’d seen it, wilbur had asked if he should plant techno some hyacinths. techno just replied that the flowers which bloom from hyacinthus’ blood are presumed to not even be hyacinths at all. after a pause, he added, _“i like anything you plant, anyway.”_

“so i can actually plant flowers in the ground where you live,” wilbur answers him. “and so you’re closer to home.” 

“this _is_ home,” techno says. 

“to tommy and phil, i mean,” wilbur says. 

“and to you?” techno asks, and wilbur is quiet. 

“you can have a second house,” wilbur says instead. “one to store your items. another to go when you miss family.” 

techno snorts. “who misses tommy?” 

“it’s important,” wilbur says, and techno quiets when he hears the sincerity of wilbur’s voice. “i don’t want you two to fall out anymore. even if you have differing views. that sort of stuff doesn’t matter when you’re together.” 

“wilbur --” techno starts, and then he falls silent. “i’ll consider it,” he says softly.

“i’ve been thinking of building one,” wilbur says, patting the dirt of his flowers in satisfaction, before finally turning to face techno. his eyes are on wilbur, serious, a bit concerned. wilbur pretends he doesn’t see that. “a house for the three of you. or renovating the place where we grew up.” 

“that’d be nice,” techno says. 

“and,” wilbur lifts a finger, “rule number one would be ‘no politics’.” 

techno smiles. “if you’re gonna make one, we should make it together.” 

wilbur smiles back. “alright,” he says. “what’re you thinking? old house by the beach, or something new?” 

techno leans backwards with a contemplative hum. “all this snow does make me miss the beach,” he says. “but why don’t we ask phil and tommy, too?” 

so they do. phil and tommy are, of course, more than happy to build a ‘family home’. phil laments how he’s missed their childhood home, and no further discussion is needed. within the week, the three of them are making the long trek to their old home, chatting all the way. it’s pleasant and warm. the earth blooms as wilbur walks, and just as when he’d instead left death in his wake, no one comments on it. but it does make their smiles a little wider, and the air a little sweeter. 

they clean their home, going through old belongings and memories. tommy says they should build a second floor for all their bedrooms. techno jokes about a ‘gaming basement’. phil, with house chores on the mind, wonders if they can’t get a maid (the mere mention of hbomb erases that thought from all their minds). 

they also make a list of rules. number one is, of course, “no politics.” they keep adding and erasing things, writing pointed insults on and being scolded by phil, and inciting many an argument. but then wilbur writes, as the very last rule, “never forget that we are family,” and no one can say anything more. 

the whole time, wilbur can feel himself trying desperately to push down a lump in his throat. every old memory, every time his family laughs, every gentle smile, all make him feel as if he’ll collapse. 

it doesn’t help that he gets so tired these days. he’s been sleeping more often -- actually sleeping. he can’t seem to stay awake for too long. 

at some point the emotions, the building, and the exhaustion all have their toll on him, and he finds himself stumbling, a wave of dizziness sending him to the ground. the concern in everyone else’s eyes is visible, but phil just comments on his own tiredness in his “old age,” and wilbur is urged to go outside with him, and to leave the building to tommy and techno. they settle down on the porch, looking out at the vast ocean. 

“wilbur,” says phil slowly, hesitantly. 

“yeah?” 

“how long do you have?” 

wilbur is quiet. 

“and don’t play dumb or say you’re fine,” phil continues. “you know i can tell. techno can too. even tommy’s smart enough to have picked up on the hints, even if he doesn’t understand. or, y’know. doesn’t _want_ to understand.” 

wilbur sighs. “i don’t know,” he says quietly. “two weeks? maybe three? i’m not sure. i’m just tired all the time, phil. and not like i was before.” 

“y’know, i --” phil’s voice wavers, and wilbur can hear the sadness thick in it, can hear how difficult this conversation is for phil. “i’m proud of you, will. of how much you’ve healed. of how you’ve taken care of this family.” 

wilbur buries his head in his arms and tries not to break apart. “thank you, phil,” he whispers. “it -- it means a lot.” 

“wilbur,” phil says. “you -- you know i love you, right?” 

“yeah,” wilbur breathes out, feeling as if the world has finally granted him air just to take it away. “i love you, too, dad.” 

as they’re sitting in the comfort of each other’s presences, evening falls. techno and tommy are almost done with the building. they come outside to join wilbur and phil, and wilbur has an idea. a wide smile spreads across his face, as he pulls his family to the garden and makes them choose flowers. purple gladiolus for phil, red dianthus for technoblade, and white freesia for tommy. then they sit in the garden and weave them into flower crowns (wilbur, naturally, is the best at it, and has to give the others a hand). wilbur is adamant on making a big show out of ‘crowning them,’ even if he gets a couple (weak) complaints. techno takes off his crown, and phil takes off his hat. wilbur’s precious family members sit side by side, and wilbur picks up their crowns, one by one, to place them on their heads. 

“my prince,” wilbur proudly crowns techno. 

“my _little_ prince,” he fondly crowns tommy (who complains, but doesn’t resist). 

and with shaking hands and hushed wonder, he crowns his father, “my king.” 

that night, they sleep in their newly rebuilt home. they each have their own rooms now, but they lay out blankets on the living room floor and sleep there together, unable to pull themselves apart, even just for the night. the stars flicker in the sky, beautiful and kind. 

wilbur wishes this night would never end. 

niki mentions their family home, during another average day spent helping her in the flower shop while captain puffy is away. “i heard you guys renovated it,” she says. 

wilbur smiles, his expression delighted simply from the reminder. “yeah, i wanted them to have a space. y’know, to be family without all the politics. it’s thanks to you, really. you brought us there, and it reminded me of everything my family can be, when we’re not weighed down by our history. i wanted them to have that for good.” 

niki gives him a studying glance. “so, you’re doing good, then? you and your family.” 

“yeah, we’re doing good,” wilbur says. “tommy and techno are learning not to, y’know. bring political issues to the family table. and phil’s,” wilbur gives a soft smile, “happy about that. i am, too.” 

“that’s good,” she says. “you’ve all been through a lot. you need to have somewhere to take all your bruises and scar. to take care of yourselves.” 

wilbur smiles. “yeah, family does that.” he turns that smile to her and adds, “you’ve done that, too. for all of us, i think.” 

she laughs shyly, appreciatively. 

“i really mean it,” wilbur says. “thank you, niki. i don’t think i’d be as, uh, whole as i am now, if it weren’t for you. you’re a good person, and you make the people around you good as well. i think everyone here forgets, sometimes, how important kindness is. i hope you’ll keep reminding them.” 

niki smiles, but it’s laden with an underlying sadness. “will?” she says carefully. 

“yeah?” 

“you keep saying that. ‘them’. as if you’re not part of the equation.” 

wilbur bites his tongue. 

“wilbur, are you…” niki glances up at him, hesitance in her every movement, and wilbur gives her a sad, sad smile. 

“sorry, niki,” he says. “but you’re right. i’m, uh…. i believe i’m not long for this world.” 

niki glances down at the flowers before her. “oh,” she says, and it’s shaky. “i see.” 

“i’m sorry,” wilbur whispers again. 

“no,” niki shakes her head. “i, uh… i thought it was a possibility. for a while now, really, so i’m just --” and she gives him that sincerely kind smile, the one that has saved his life. “i’m just glad you were able to heal, wilbur, before you had to go.” 

“thank you, niki,” wilbur says. “i know you’re going to keep this world beautiful. with your flowers, and your heart. and that… that makes me rest easy.” 

wilbur leaves only when it’s late in the day. he couldn’t bear to go, and she couldn’t bear to let him. maybe they both knew. that it would the last time he’d come to that flower shop. 

niki pulls him into a hug before he goes. they ignore each other’s shaking hands. 

“i’ll never forget you, wilbur,” niki whispers, that quiet determination of hers shining through. “i’ll remember you everytime i plant flowers here. i’ll keep the world beautiful. the way you’d want it.” 

“that’s all i could ever want,” wilbur whispers back. 

she pulls back, and she lets her watery eyes take him in one last time. 

“bye, wilbur.” 

“goodbye, niki.” 

the flowers outside eret’s castle are a good touch. he and fundy both agree, and wilbur is more than happy to keep going back to keep them pretty. he’s got a “flower touch,” fundy keeps saying. he seems to be the only one capable of keeping the flowers alive the right way. fundy and eret have no talent for it at all, and it’s only now that the weather is starting to improve that the flowers have stopped showing signs of possibly wilting. 

“you didn’t used to like flowers this much,” fundy comments, watching wilbur smile as he cares for the garden. 

“i guess i didn’t have time for them,” wilbur says. “y’know, what with all the war and politics.” 

“right,” fundy says. “you probably could’ve been a master gardener if you weren’t president.” 

wilbur snickers. “maybe i will be, in the next life.” 

“the next?” fundy echoes. “you believe in that sort of thing? 

wilbur shrugs. “well, why not? it’s kind of poetic, isn’t it? to think we can exist again, even after we’re gone.” 

fundy hums. “i don’t know,” he says. “i never really thought about it.” 

“you’re young,” wilbur says. “you don’t need to think about it yet.” 

“i’m not that young anymore, will.” 

“you’re young to me,” wilbur says. “it’s a dad thing.” 

fundy rolls his eyes. “of course it is.” 

“what’s your favorite flower, fundy?” wilbur asks suddenly. 

“i don’t know,” fundy says. 

“come here. come pick one.” 

fundy follows wilbur’s gesturing, stepping over to the garden and peering at the flowers. he points at a small patch of red flowers, and says, “how about those?” 

“anemone,” wilbur says quietly. there’s a heavy, unspoken knowledge in his tone, which fundy does not share in. he plucks a handful of the anemone, and nods for fundy to follow him. they sit together in the grass outside the castle, and wilbur shows fundy how to weave the anemone into a flower crown. “i did this with phil and my brothers,” he says. “i wanted to make one for you, too.” 

so they make one, basking in the gentle sun and the smell of flowers, and wilbur quietly hums a song. it feels familiar to fundy, so he asks wilbur what it is. 

“a lullaby,” wilbur says. “phil used to sing it to me, when i was little. and i used to sing it to you. back in the old l’manburg.” he looks up at fundy, and his eyes are shining. “i’m glad you remember it.” 

he takes the flower crown, now completed, and stands up. 

“a crown for you, my son,” he says. “you are, and you shall always be, my most beloved prince.” he lays it gently on fundy’s head. he makes sure its position is just right, that it lays upon his hair perfectly. then, with sad, sad eyes, he says, “and… anemone? one of its meanings is ‘death of a loved one’.” 

fundy understands, in this moment, more than he’s ever understood about wilbur before. he understands that his father loves him. that he loves his father. 

he understands that wilbur is leaving. 

“oh,” fundy says, and it is thick with emotion that cannot be spoken of. 

wilbur offers him a pained, but loving smile. it is a smile fundy will never be able to forget again. 

“sorry,” wilbur whispers. “i thought you should know. y’know, before, uh. it happens.” 

“i see,” fundy says shakily. it’s hard to speak. 

wilbur slowly reaches down, taking fundy’s hands in his. he does it a lot -- the littlest acts of physical affection. ever since he was able to do it again. now fundy wonders for how much longer he’ll be able to feel this gentle touch. 

“you know i’m proud of you, right?” wilbur asks. his voice is so thick with love that it hurts to hear. “whatever differences we’ve had, you are my son. my wonderful son. and i love you so, so much. i know you are capable of so much. i know you will not follow down my dark path -- you will do something far better than i ever could. you will succeed in ways i could never imagine. i just hope,” and he gently adjusts the flower crown on fundy’s head, “that some part of me exists in you as you do. that these flowers remind you of me, and that… i can be hope for you.” 

“you are,” fundy chokes out, before he loses sight of the words. “you -- you have done so much for me, wilbur. for my life. and i -- i am who i am only because you were here, because you,” his voice shatters over the words, “because you loved me. and i -- i love you.” 

wilbur smiles, so gentle and at ease from the admission, and fundy wishes he had said it a million times before, to have given his father the chance to smile more. 

“i couldn’t have asked for a better son,” wilbur says. 

“nor i a better father,” fundy breathes out.

eventually, fundy is called away by eret. for once, his hesitance to leave is visible, and wilbur can’t help but revel in it. regardless of whatever walls they’d encountered, he could see it, now. he mattered to his son. 

“well,” fundy says, rising to his feet. he finds it hard to make eye contact. “bye, wilbur,” he murmurs. 

wilbur raises his hand up to fix fundy’s hair, careful not to topple the crown. he brushes off fundy’s jacket, and he squeezes his hand tight. 

“goodbye, my son.” 

wilbur thinks he should be getting used to goodbyes, but they only weigh heavier on his soul. he wants to be ready to leave, but he doesn’t think anyone ever truly can be. still, his days become shorter and shorter, lost to dizziness and exhaustion as they are. he spends what little time he has with the people that he loves. they watch him with concern visible in his eyes. everyone can tell, now, that his time is drawing short. 

the flowers aren’t dying anymore. it seems his work planting them is done. they never wilt, never waver. they stand strong, beautiful, coloring this world he loves without hesitation. he has a feeling they will live for a very long time. 

techno and tommy ask him which flowers are his favorites. they’re at their house by the beach. it gets harder, these days, to leave this place. 

“daffodils,” wilbur answers. 

tommy and techno exchange looks, tell wilbur to wait a moment, and rush outside. wilbur, too tired to make any arguments or ask any questions, just leans his head back against the wall. he’s sitting in his bed against the wall, blankets over his legs. the floor of his room is coated in petals and flowers -- not as a result of his gardening habits, which do line his walls and his shelves, but as a result of his dreams, full of love and joy which seeps into his reality and blooms around him. 

phil comes into the room, silently handing wilbur a cup of coffee, and holding one for himself. he takes a seat at wilbur’s desk, where various papers are scattered about. 

“still tired?” phil asks. the casualness in his voice is just a tad bit forced. 

wilbur gives him a small laugh. “always tired, phil,” he says. he looks around at his room; the soft blankets covering him, the flowers surrounding him, the faint sound of techno and tommy’s voices carrying through his open window. “but i’m comfortable here. i’m happy.” 

phil’s grip on his mug tightens, just a little bit. “good,” he whispers. “that’s good.” 

wilbur thinks someone has said something about this once -- something about a child dying before their parent, and the absolute horror of it. how much worse for phil, for the angel of death himself, for the man who drove that sword into wilbur’s chest?” 

“phil,” wilbur says slowly, “i was talking to fundy about this the other day. do you believe in rebirth? reincarnation, or the cycle of lives, or… whatever you’d like to call it.” 

“uh, i don’t know,” phil says. “i imagine something happens to us when we, uh, pass, but… i don’t know what.” 

“i think death is impermanent,” wilbur says. his words come drowsily, and his smile is lazy, but he holds onto the cup in his hands with firm determination. “it only lasts when we decide we want it to. and i’ve planted all these flowers, phil. so many flowers. i don’t think i’m capable of being completely dead, anymore. y’know?” 

phil turns away. he takes a shaky breath. “i think i know what you’re saying,” he says, with a wavering voice. 

“if i am reborn,” wilbur says. “i think daffodils would be nice.” 

“you’d like to be reborn as daffodils?” phil asks with a light laugh. 

“yes, daffodils. they’re so cheery, aren’t they? they feel like the beginning of spring.” 

“i suppose so,” phil agrees. a quiet settles between them; phil can’t bring himself to speak. 

“i have a request, phil,” says wilbur quietly, almost hesitantly. 

“what is it?”

“i’d like to be buried here. by the beach. and by our family.” 

wilbur hears another shaky intake. 

“of course, will,” his father whispers. “i can do that for you.” 

a serene smile settles on wilbur’s face. “thank you, phil,” he says. his eyes are beginning to flutter closed. “i think i need to rest now.” 

“goodnight, wilbur.” 

“goodnight, phil.” 

techno is reading in wilbur’s room when he wakes up. he turns lazily to the side, and gives techno a smile. “good morning,” he says. 

“six pm, wilbur,” techno responds. 

“morning,” wilbur giggles. 

techno closes his book (it’s one of wilbur’s, in fact), and turns towards wilbur. “you feeling alright?” techno asks. 

“perfect,” wilbur says. 

“okay.” techno stands up. “come on, then.” 

wilbur slowly pulls himself out of bed, so techno can lead him away and to outside. 

there, he sees tommy and phil on the beach, and they’ve decorated it gorgeously. chinese lanterns hang in the sky, and there’s a white arch and podium decorated in flowers, across from which is a bench. tommy and phil are both wearing their flower crowns, and techno is taking off his own crown to put his on. there’s a table with all sorts of food on it (and a basket of bread with a note that reads ‘love, niki’).

wilbur looks between his family members in confusion. “what is this?” he asks, a giddy laugh escaping him. 

“we’re having a party!” tommy says, bounding over to wilbur. 

“a party?” wilbur asks. 

“it’s a coronation ceremony!” tommy exclaims. 

“you didn’t make a crown for yourself last time,” phil says. “these two wanted to make one for you.” 

techno and tommy offer him these silly, sheepish smiles, and the love rises up so overwhelmingly in wilbur that he thinks he may burst. 

“come on!” tommy urges him. wilbur can’t help but laugh as he lets tommy pull him towards the white arch, flowers blooming in the sand with each step they take across it. wilbur sees a little pedestal by the arch, with a red pillow sitting on it, and a carefully crafted daffodil flower crown on top of that. 

wilbur swallows away his tears, and lets tommy point him to where he should be standing. 

tommy clears his throat louder than necessary. techno and phil have taken seats on the bench.

“welcome, everybody, to the coronation ceremony of wilbur soot!” techno and phil offer some light applause. “we are gathered here today in celebration of my special older brother, who accomplished very many things while he was alive, and who i think is a really cool guy.” 

tommy takes quick steps off the podium, and wilbur bites back giggles as he watches techno and tommy awkwardly switch places. phil claps to fill the silence. 

techno gives the mic two taps, turns to wilbur, and says, “tommy said we should all talk, so…” 

wilbur laughs, and techno sighs at the complaints from the peanut gallery (tommy). 

“anyway,” he says. “as your twin brother, wilbur, i’ve kinda lived with you for a long time. i know you’re british, and i’m not, and i’m a pig, and you’re not, but we’re still brothers. and you’ve always been a good one to me, wilbur. always. so, uh,” techno takes a heavy breath. “i don’t know what i’d do if i’d never had you. i love you, man.” 

“i love you, too,” wilbur whispers. 

techno gives a stilted nod, hops his way off the podium, and trades places with phil, who gives wilbur a warm smile. it’s tinted with sadness, but it’s immensely kind. 

“okay, wilbur,” phil says, turning to pick up the flower crown. “kneel down.” 

wilbur drops to one knee without hesitation. he has no reason to hesitate, not for phil. 

“i, as your father and king, am pleased to give you this position, in thanks for all you’ve done for this world. wilbur soot, today,” and phil places the crown upon wilbur’s head, “i crown you the flower prince of our world. may you reign forever.” 

there’s loud cheering from tommy and techno. wilbur takes phil’s hand, resting his forehead against it in absolute deference. 

_“thank you,”_ he whispers. 

phil, in return, takes wilbur’s hand, and gently pulls him to his feet. “i love you, son.” no matter how many times wilbur hears it, he still feels shaken to his core. 

“i love you, too.” 

“come on!” tommy exclaims, now grabbing both of their hands, to pull them towards himself and techno. “let’s have a party, will!” 

wilbur laughs, gleeful and bright. “alright, let’s have a party.” 

and they spend the next few hours forgetting about everything in the world except each other, reveling in flowers in full bloom and the beauty of having one another. 

the sun sets, and phil retires inside for some rest. his three sons lay side by side in the sand, flower petals caught in their sleeves and their hearts. 

“i will never forget this day,” tommy says, and there is a determination in it -- a _need_ to know it won’t be forgotten. to have wilbur know. 

“don’t,” wilbur says. “never forget any of it.” 

“i’m gonna remember flowers,” tommy says. “i’m gonna make niki teach me all those flower meanings and everything. and i’m gonna remember -- i’m gonna remember building our home. and swimming in the beach.” 

“i’m gonna remember cussing at badboyhalo,” techno says, and they all break into silly laughter. “and fishing,” he says. “and i’m gonna remember when we were kids, too. i’m gonna remember beating you at all our fights, wilbur.” 

wilbur laughs. “didn’t i beat you more?” 

“no, no,” techno says. “i clearly remember being the winner.” 

“and will you two stop fighting now?” wilbur asks. 

“uhh,” they say in unison. 

“we won’t fight here,” techno says. 

“yeah, yeah,” tommy agrees. “it’s in the rules.” 

wilbur breathes out a laugh. “that’s good enough for me,” he says. 

“what will you remember, wilbur?” tommy asks. 

wilbur smiles. “i’m gonna remember… the sound of phil’s voice when he sings. the look in tommy’s eyes when he feels really, really alive. and the way techno always lives as freely as he can. and i’m gonna remember my son. he likes anemone, and he -- he loves me. and i’ll remember the smell of niki’s bread, and the way she speaks to her flowers when she wants them to grow. i’ll remember dream, and george, and all of them, and that when they’re not fighting us, they’ve done good things.” 

“debatable,” tommy mutters, and wilbur laughs. 

“i’m going to remember how it feels to be alive,” wilbur says. “the wind in my lungs. the happiness when i see my family. the feeling of loving so deeply that it makes me want to cry. i’m going to remember everything, tommy. everything good and everything bad. l’manburg, and pogtopia, and every war, and every failure, and every success, and -- and the fact that even when i faltered, my family would find its way back together. we can always find our way back together.” 

“i’m going to remember you, wilbur,” techno murmurs. “i am going to live forever, and i’m going to remember you every day.” 

“good,” wilbur says. “do it. i know you can do it, both of you.” 

he can hear tommy’s shaking breaths at his side, so he takes his brothers’ hands, and he holds them tight. 

“you can remember everything,” he whispers, and the feeling of being alive runs through his veins, in defiance of the world. “you can live forever. you are my brothers; you are always capable of anything.” 

“i’ll do it for you,” tommy says, like the words are being choked out of him. 

wilbur smiles. “and remember that the most important thing is always family. it always comes back to family.” 

“it always comes back to family,” his brothers echo. a promise shared between them; a promise they shall never break. 

_like this,_ wilbur thinks. _like this, full of love, full of meaning. i am okay with going if it is like this._

“tommy. techno. i love you both so, so much.” 

“i love you too,” they whisper back to him. 

and wilbur, for all that he had broken before, for how deeply he has suffered and all he has gone through; wilbur knows, without a single doubt, that he is whole. 

in the morning, wilbur leaves his home. tommy and techno are there, and they cannot bring themselves to speak, when sadness hangs so heavy in the air. they don’t understand, but they know he has to go. he takes their hands, and he presses kisses to them, and he wipes away tommy’s tears. 

“wilbur --” tommy murmurs, and the words are too much to get out, so he doesn’t say them. anything that has to be said has been, and anything that hasn’t been said lays within their hearts. so he swallows, pushing down any further tears, and he says, “bye, wilbur.”

“bye, wilbur,” techno echoes quietly. 

“goodbye, my brothers,” wilbur says. he tucks one last flower into tommy’s hair, and one under techno’s crown, and he leaves the home they built together. 

he takes the long walk to l’manburg all alone. he finds a spot on a hill, where he can see it all. the nation he built, almost entirely returned to its former glory -- or rather, it seems to have surpassed what it was before. 

he takes a quiet breath. the morning air is gentle. the world holds its breath in suspense, waiting only for him. the sun peaks over the horizon, just enough to illuminate the nation he once built. 

and wilbur begins to sing. he sings in reverence for the place which both granted him so much and took so much away from him. he sings for all he has suffered, for all he has gained, for all he has broken and all he has healed. he sings, because he has little else for himself now. spring has come, the flowers have been planted, and he is full to the brim of love. no matter how much he gave, he still continued to be full of love. and so, for all that love, for all his family and his friends, he sings. 

_“my l’manburg, my l’manburg.”_

and he tilts his eyes up to the sky, and takes in the sunlight. 

_“goodbye, l’manburg.”_

he looks back towards his nation, and standing between it and him is his father. “are you ready?” phil asks. 

“i’m ready,” wilbur says.

“wilbur.” phil’s hands and breath shake. “goodbye.” 

“goodbye, phil.” 

the angel of death unfurls his wings, and in a shower of flowers, wilbur dies for the final time. 

tommy and techno find his daffodil crown laying on his bed. together, with phil, they dig his grave by the beach. they place the crown inside of it. phil inscribes the words _‘wilbur soot, flower prince: forever may he reign’_ upon the gravestone. everyone, enemy and ally alike, comes to the funeral, in respect for who he was, for all he did. 

spring reaches its peak then comes to an end, and never once do his flowers wilt. every morning, when phil looks out and sees them surviving unfalteringly, he knows that wilbur was truly right. that death is impermanent; that wilbur remains, forever and always. 

when winter comes again, the season in which wilbur died so many times, snow coats the flowers and hides them from view. but when all the world might give in to the cold, there is a bit of land by the beach, where wilbur’s gravestone lies. at the beginning of winter, daffodils bloom there, and they stay until winter ends. when wilbur’s family sees those daffodils begin to wilt, they know that spring is coming. they know that the flowers wilbur planted will grow again for them. 

so every year, come the last and first weeks of winter, they come to their home on the beach. they prepare for the birth and death of his daffodils. they prepare to greet him, and to say goodbye. 

and together, wearing the crowns given by their everlasting flower prince, they remember. 

  
  



End file.
